"undertaken" poems
*i once had a girl from poland over,
gave her the tourism of london,
a daughter of my mother's friend.*
i suffered sun stroke one day out
with her, blonde hair and all,
i was bound to feel the cold shivers,
went to a party with a school-friend
of mine and her...
i was left in a bed shivering,
he later said he didn't want to say it
but did, that they kissed...
like i didn't know the shorthand for
oral ***
now i'm drinking a beer, write
one poem weeping, another like this
one laughing prior, slapping myself in
the cheek...
two slaps to the face i didn't receive
from prostitutes **** your moral
relativism, you people only
know that theft and ****** and ****
are equal in the cauldron of einstein's
space-and-time, i accept physical
relativism, but i loath moral relativism,
it's like giving an umbrella to the man
under a champagne waterfall -
and an anorak to a man under a waterfall
of cow **** -
yep, slaps outside the brothel,
the kind women became knights' sparring partners
for the oath undertaken,
it was a practice among knights to get
a handkerchief to ease the sting later...
but when prostitutes don't slap you
for trying to sort your life in order to provide,
you sort of become two knights,
twin siamese, you slap yourself because
all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into
sex-augmentation procedures and cheap
cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering...
leisurely ladies of societies made rich
by easy money, watching operas
but still preferring to notice what
their neighbours were wearing,
the peasant snobism who are more distracted
by what others wear rather than the music...
a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears
at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new
post-aristocratic society of easy money...
you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks
for more laughter... your brain
becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad
rather than turning docile...
so she came over and enjoyed my company,
spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise...
but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss...
well **** me there's a cataphract -
let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher
cared to exist.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)
staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.
(enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
(shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)
i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.
(When in the heights heaven had not been named)
(and below, firm ground had not been called...)
i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.
i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.
(Amaru baur rata)
(Shagane Ir Imshi)
i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo
(The Flood swept thereover)
(His heart was filled with tears)
Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards
Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
2.5k
...are a study on a subject matter
that someone else has undertaken
on your behalf.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
The ship(notified) lost
leisurely drifts over waves
westwards, "Unhurried hereafter"
is the slogan written on it's mast
it would seem to an onlooker.
A net is cast wide,
to catch as much fish
as the tired crew now needs.
Each furious wave
that rushes towards the ship
changes tack, proclaims
a frothy message of peace.
No more communication exchanges
causing disturbances, no hurry any more.
None waits for the lost ship,
in any distant shore, with a binocular,
or spanning a Radar, uneasily .
The crew had already forgotten
every mission undertaken before.
It has no schedule, deadlines, plan
the ship feels more buyout than ever before
,just floats along, as if it's a tranquil thought,
towards the direction where
the purple sun prepares to set dramatically.
Accompanied by two astonished whales,
sailing along like two mates, the ship,
now a lone wolf,with a hidden yearning
has become more alive, once declared lost.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
We look upon the water and we see-
Among the sticks and twigs of chaos’ reign-
The type of person that we long to be.
The changes undertaken are in vain,
Beneath the surface creatures cry in pain-
We look upon the water and we see
The imperfections; all the things that feign
The other’s interest, if we just became
The type of person that we long to be...
But as our eyes grow tired and necks crane
And as our souls erupt in hatred’s flame,
We look upon the water and we see...
We see, through glasses fogged by pouring rain
The looking glass that lies and causes pain,
The type of person that we long to be.
Our imperfections cloud our views, they reign
Upon us and make misery a game-
We look upon the water and we see
The type of person that we long to be.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
A heat I could no longer tolerate. I gulped from the bottle as sweat drenched my brow.
The lines had been drawn. Arbitary divisions separating positions. Journeys were to be undertaken, 'long is the road' was the chant.
Tibetian prayer flags flapped in the winds. Abandoned newspapers whirled as if suspended on strings.
Wake up!
The bottle was empty. Our time had arrived. Hearts were beating. This day was sublime.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC
At weekends in mid-August if the weather sunny
A girl dresses in bright fluorescent pink socks
The sort sold three in a pack at the local market
Puts on her best T- bar white shoes and is ready.
A family outing which included a younger brother;
And a bundle of toys, cricket bat and picnic bags
The train went from Tooting Bec to Mordon station
And from there a tiring walk was undertaken.
Delightful it was with the cow- parsley and crickets
Red Admiral butterflies and leaf blossom on the trees
The siblings, only eighteen months apart, thought
They could barely wait to arrive at their special spot.
And so they did, well before one o’clock, in high spirits
Racing the river as it flowed hidden behind iron railings
Nettles in the tall grass and air scented meadow- sweet
To the trunk improvised seat by The Wandle .
Love Mary x
'
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Read between the lines
running theme
running in and out
and inbetween
moments in my life.
Taunting me is Miss Mystery
and her sweet moments of ecstacy
carry me
to questions of implied imagery.
The space between each line I
write and read;
each line I wait on, drive on;
each line I listen between;
each line spoken to and from me-
Endless misunderstanding
undertaking me.
Undertaken me!
We never say
We never sing
what we really mean.
We never reach a destination
on these lines driven between.
The answer is hiding
for her benefit.
The answer has
Nothing to do with you
Nothing to do with me
Us, barbaric human beings
being arrogant with the lines
we speak.
Arrogance thriving between lines
paved with housing establishments
while the space between mountain ranges
sits vibrant,
patient.
All made of sunshine
All made of peace of mind
All made between the
thin line of atmosphere.
I actively disrupt her.
Mindlessly disregarding the
space between lines.
I act so possessively towards this
life of mine.
Yet, observant
I try to be.
Silent
I try to be.
And I try
to read between the lines
my mind project before my eyes.
My eyes: with lines protruding from all sides,
when I'm the least bit pleased.
Oh, least bit of knowledge I've gained
from these meditative rants that my
subconscious recalls only when there are
no designated lines to write between.
Lack of lines let's my subconscious free.
Selfish as each human being;
each human being free
I wait
more or less
patiently,
for someone to
read between my worn eye-lines
correctly.
Englightenment
I wait to
want me
or,
wait to
watch me.
I wait for the nameless to see me.
Desire's undertaking me,
Undertaken me!
I never say,
I never sing,
what I really mean.
Desire turned nameless me needy.
Me, the
Nameless human being
Nameless between
lines of Nameless Humans
being free,
being greedy.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
The horizon is the impossible goal.
* It is the goal of trying to catch up with the sun, trying to surpass the infinite boundary that exists only from the limitations of the eye.
* It is the goal that takes years of labor and toil, and when it seems like it will soon be over, it always sets itself further out of reach.
* It is the goal, simple and straightforward at present, but winding and demanding the further along the path one goes.
* It is the goal that must be undertaken alone, regardless of how many are on the path with you.
* It is the goal that is always present, even in times of rest, the one that looms over you, stalking you like prey, hunting you when you aren't hunting it.
* It is the goal whose journey many have taken, but none have returned from.
* It is the goal which, after having been attained, is rumored to reward you in ways that will continue to manifest far into the future.
It is the goal that you can never attain, and yet you must cross the horizon.
It is the goal that you must attain, and yet you can never cross the horizon.
* You can never cross the horizon, only perpetuate the hunt for what lies over it.
* You can never cross the horizon, and you constantly remind yourself of this when you insanely continue to run through the toil of the process.
* You can never cross the horizon, but in the quest for it, you are forced to make alliances, work with others to catapult yourselves across the same goal.
* You can never cross the horizon, but the effort to do so leaves you with a stronger sense of self, knowing how you react in the face of adversity, and understanding how the journey shapes you.
* You can never cross the horizon, yet you refuse to quit when each trial bends the bones of your back, when every step shreds the skin on your feet, when the heat cooks and boils your brain, when all the nerves in your being direct your heart to stop, except that one, that lonely one, that one which refuses to quit.
* You can never cross the horizon, and as the sun shrinks deeper, the hunt becomes more and more desperate with every step.
* You can never cross the horizon; in trying, you will only exhaust all of the resources and time that is given to you, all of the energy and strength that was left in you, and all of the creativity and ingenuity that was built in you.
You can never cross the horizon.
Until you do.
And when you cross the horizon...
The rest is up to you to write...
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 3:11 AM UTC
I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your lips as the body and your hips
as the blood of a Holy Spirit you’ve been
hiding in your eyes, your eyes, your eyes
that I’ve been praying to
worship, worship, worship. Some would call
this feeling blasphemy, but since it is winter,
I am willing to take a little trip down to hell
to melt the cold in my bones, especially
if that means I can walk you back
to Heaven. But don’t take this all too seriously
because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your words as Gospel and raised them to my
tongue and matched it with yours to bathe
myself in your waters to wash away my sins-
and yes, I am a sinner, for I have undertaken
many a Crusade to prove myself worthy
of you. But the blood of my enemies is your
hips. The lips of those I have left for you is
your body. And still in your hell I find Heaven.
But
don’t take this all too seriously because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
1.4k
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Find the hardest possible thing
you could do,
and do that,
the heaviest possible thing
you could lift,
and lift that,
the most taxing responsibility
in your grasp,
and take that on.
Do you think it is by pure chance
that warriors are forged in fire?
What of their blood sacrifices?
Challenge your barriers;
do not let them sit indeterminable.
Life is not the pursuit of happiness;
life is the pursuit of the cessation of suffering.
Do you think love is a blessing?
In some ways, perhaps,
but let's not forget the responsibility
we must bear
when another soul is entrusted to us.
What greater compliment is there than that?
To say, you, no matter your faults and troubles,
you are the person in which I will spend my life with,
come hell, come the high waters of the flood,
you are the only one I want.
And to bear children, to bring children into
a dismal world such as this,
filled with wretched suffering and anguish,
such a thing is not an act of foolishness
when undertaken voluntarily,
it is an act of supreme courage.
We are not meant to be happy in this life,
we are built for struggle,
to strive and to break through the top soil
and reach the light of day.
We must bear our cross,
however heavy,
however unfair,
and continue on.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
Each of us is on a journey
For each the journey is different
Filled with unimaginable suffering
Pain the likes of which you will never experience
For the burdens upon the traveler
Wear them down mind, body and soul
Although do not despair
For the fate of man is not
So simply painful
Along this journey
You will find treasures
The likes of which
Are beyond the mere imagination of men
I speak not of precious stones
Nor of fantastical wealth
Made of currency or jewel
But of precious memories
And fantastical dreams
Made reality by your will
The hero of this journey
Is endowed with a great gift
That of being given the opportunity
To prove just how possible
Impossible can be
This epic,
However,
Must be undertaken alone
Each monumental action,
Each life-changing idea,
Each imperative decision
Must be decided by you
You alone
Are burdened by bearing responsibility
For the fate of the journey
Though you will travel with others
We all have our own path
They may cross or even join for a time
But ultimately every path is its own
No two the same
And although each journey
May differ
They all have the same outcome--
They end.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
the city's moon
fixated in its peoples tics and behaviour
crass and mentally fractured
traction acts
the loony satellite makes sway for rude construction
padding our ego psychology
nothing simple allowed
we are all a manic reference of each other
the city weather is steered
by currents of gossip
withhold your info
culture clutches
misguiding alliances
treasure your details
it is your only insurance
this city
it's a view to thrill
but it odors me til ill
****** privacy and get undressed
too much time here harbouring thirst
quibbling hurt feelings
signals ; Life Emitting Distress
so
lock up the night city stars
mar-glaring bulbs of pity-me
staring about for vagrancy
i flip up my hood
lucent pandery eyes span the communal routes
search us out merchandise and mood
i turn down an alleyway
and am confronted
a vain and voyeuristic fan tail
varieties cocktail of sales and entertainment
ad lights send out sonar 'pings'
wing-ed ; fencing judgement
i wear pricy contacts to veil my retinas
and my hood is lined with aluminium
i cough and concentrate on breath
commemorate each step undertaken
weaponize my walk
eyes low
my being is voided into guise
heading further from the city centre
i can straighten from my defensive pose
in amongst the dwellings
the urban effect dwindles
kindled instead by the dosey soup wash of streetlights
delights; the holy crop of them
webbing outward retching past our boundaries
shored back upon natures breath
(so i imagine)
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 9:03 PM UTC
the small wooden floor room
where she spreads her trinkets
her mystery box spells and
potions in tiny bottles
she lay there amidst her tokens and treasures
and sings softly along with a song
that plays in the distance
on a radio
a song that speaks to her of simpler times
and beautiful people
of a better world we all left behind decades ago
a world she could rejoin if she belived hard enough
the days when she holds enough hope
there is a smile
and she faces out towards the sun
but i dread the days when
she captures a glance at the reflection
of her fast vanishing days
and how little things have changed in her life
her smile is gone on thouse days
her face is a shadow
i must carry her through
days like that she needs my strength
to keep from getting trapped
the crisp blue skies
frame the giant oak tree that we lay under
leaves float down here and there
with vivid fall color
you can taste fall in the air
you can feel it in the texture of her conversation
as she talks of hallows eve
and Christmas
William Tell
Ivanhoe and Chaucer
its the season for dinner theater
its the season for a bottle of red wine in the sand
by the river
and the tales to be told
grand ventures to be undertaken
in bold and fast words alone
she takes your hand
and with a deep smile touches your lips
with her fingertip
and begins to speak
but you never get to hear what she would have said
you awaken sheets soaked in sweat
twenty years on
and she still visits you near every night
sometimes its her on the beach where she died
sometimes its the weeks that lead up to that
godforsaken day
twenty years
twenty years
twenty years
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
I need to go to the grave yard,
need to dig some dirt.
Make a nest for sleep.
Let the dirt infuse into me.
Infuse with me and the dead.
I want crosses on my forehead.
My forehead mounded upon with dust,
the soil of all this West Texas, impacted upon my chest,
and the sticks of skeletons shall ***** my flesh.
Make me parts of them.
Splinters, perfect spacing, spectral spines.
Barrow injecting me with creativity.
We all come from the particles left of,
by the demise of life.
We are leftovers of after thoughts,
left in attics, filled with soot in peoples minds.
Then I can make art.
Then I can cut out snow,
to shapes of stars.
Tin man in the ground, grows rust as he settles into moist dirt.
He wont grow any more like a plant.
But as sugar in the ground he rust and melts,
oxidates into nothing, then transmuting into,
crystals.
This is cemetery life.
I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can make a home.
Build me a little mistress,
make a family in her bones.
The cottage that we build there,
will have ivy, we'll have friends,
the gates of it will say welcome sir,
madam death waits to have you in.
Drinking milk thistle tea,
dancing waltzes in the fog light.
Diffusing in the spectral photons,
bowing down to afterlife.
Kissing the lips of the grave yard.
Opens the doors, hands extend.
I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can find a place, I fit in.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
fuzzy buzzy flickering light fixtures
court me for days -
tired, unlatched
and in a daze
broken hinges hang from
untapped doorways,
painted with
shattered looking glasses
and laces overthrowing
unseen faces
crawling at ungodly paces,
blind red rages boil over
onto sentient pages to die
on unlit stages,
reeking with rows
of rotting audiences,
decomposing millions of
masterpieces.
sleepless death
undertaken,
like a sorry soul,
to a hole new level
six breaths under
reborn into a dogs tail
clenched between
it's own teeth.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Erasure & Found Poem from
"On Photography By Teju Cole in april 16th new york times magazine
--
You were The fast moving disaster of a tsunami
added to the slow motion disaster
of a nuclear calamity
Towns flooded
Infrastructure wrecked
Forests splintered
more than 15,000 people dead.
earthquake cut off
my external power supply
Floodwaters damaged my backup generators
Disabled it's cooling system
Overheating ensued
Fuel in three reactor cores melted
Releasing radiation
Everyone saw The water coming in
The roads swept away
Towns and harbors destroyed
Extensive documentary work
was undertaken by photographers
Of the ruins,
Debris,
Cleanup and relief operations
The gut-wrentching scale of destruction
The professionalism of the emergency crews
The fortitude of the survivers
The extreme uncertainty I feel
in our current political moment
helps me understand for the first time
the curious twinship
of mourning and premonition.
Information
about the tragedy
Sorrow for the suffering it caused
Gratitude for the work
that makes sorrow visible
Foreboding about the future.
An alert flashes
your phone
Something terrible has happened
Far away, a flood, an airstrike,
Soon, there's footage of people picking through wreckage
what used to be their homes
It is easy to pity them
Difficult to imagine this will be you
Suddenly bereft of a solid place in the world.
Listening to anything
that touches on the sublime
makes me apprehensive.
Like The silence that greets us
waking in the middle of the night
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
From the top of her long, silky hairs
To her beautiful, sun-licked, shining face
To the tip of her soft, curved *******
To midway between her sweet, warm thighs
To the bottom of her long, strong feet
She is one great puzzle
A great treasure to be hunted
A mystery to be admired
A land to be explored
A journey to be undertaken
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC
if only life was less complicated
if only feelings could be undertaken
if only you would comprehend
if only dreams could become true without a tribute such as you ...
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
An unknown artist's heart speaks on this subway wall
my mind drifts to the scene of creation, possibly this:
in amazement I look at that cat,at my face she looks up
and understands, this feline inaugurates the incidental show
of spontaneous art, at this street, just waking up shedding sleep
a ball collaborates with her,bouncing around with such verve,
spreading cheer,wholeheartedly, so strange for an object like it
which is not something even intended by anyone
Art has a right to happen,
like this, the morning sun, by nature, provides support,
from a long, long distance, the effect electrifies the scene
the cat, looking up by the magic of the moment,sees rays of sun
filtering through the foliage,can she imagine the distance
sun rays travel, to play with her, with such grace?
A lonely man, captures the scene,as a graffiti, within engraved,
one can imagine from the way he looks pleased,
don't you miss the mixed up pigments on his fingers,
unmistakable glee divine of an underground artist
decidedly flashes across his face, not for him,
but to express the pain unmitigated, all through his life
he'll pack his things,stuff in a small bag and leave this place.
A moment of exhilaration for many, when they see
his essence, spread across the subway train, in colors of protest,
rooted in his mourning art,experience of the hour created,
yes there are consequences for the art,the cat, the illuminating sun,
the onlookers around, including me,are not to be concerned,
only he and his brothers in art, taking part in this attack
for him, this moment of enlightenment,is reward enough
for all the adventures, he had undertaken till now.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC